Then he saw a strange frightened look come slowly into her eyes; she reached out her hand and laid it on the top of the rocking chair near to her.
“Patty!”
There was a space of dead silence, through which Tom heard and noticed the sound of rushing water and the clattering of the mill. He did not go a step forward, for, as he looked at her, there was that in her face that chilled him through and through—it was as though a gulf had opened between them.
Her face was as white as death, and Tom saw the fingers of the hand that rested on the top of the rocking chair, quivering nervously. She moistened her lips with her tongue, and at last she spoke, but in a hoarse whisper, and so low that he could hardly hear the matter of the words:
“Tom—Tom—Oh, my God, Tom! is that thee?”
“Yes, Patty; it’s me! I’ve come back to thee after a sorely long time! Why don’t thee speak—why don’t thee say something to me? What’s the matter, Patty?”
“Wait—wait—let me think!” said she, putting her finger to her forehead, “they all told me that thee was dead—they said that thee was drowned. Can dead people come back again?”
“Patty! Patty!” cried Tom, “my own darling! tell me; what does this mean?”
By this time the tears were running in streams down her pale cheeks; she made no effort to wipe them away, and did not seem to know that they were flowing.
“What is the matter?—Patty, tell me,” said Tom, again.